


The Gift of Second Chances

by anais



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Old Age, Redemption, Self-Sacrifice, Tom gets a chance at a normal life, old!Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 23:35:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8943904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anais/pseuds/anais
Summary: Harry is an old man, and he knows he is dying. He hopes there is one last life he might save, one last good deed to be performed, before he steps into the darkness and the next great adventure.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an r/writingprompts prompt about a year ago. Cleaned up and reformatted.

It was a crisp, cool evening, the end of September, and by the dying evening light Harry navigated his way slowly across the Hogwarts grounds. They were not what they had once been, but then, nothing was. Harry paused quietly, as was his custom, at the place where the caretaker's hut had once stood, and thought of friends long passed. There was a weariness that had crept into Harry's bones, and he longed to rest, to be with all of those he'd lost. But for a few moments, standing at the cusp of the forest with wind tousling his still-wild hair, he felt eleven years old again, and took delight in the pleasure of simply being. The feeling cemented in his heart and mind his plan, and he offered up a silent wish that tonight he would be successful.

It was a long walk to the clearing for a man who had long since lost count of his years, but after what felt like hours Harry found himself in the part of the woods for which he had searched. Perhaps the walk had been restorative, or perhaps it was the mysterious ancient magic of the forbidden forest, but Harry, though he knew he would soon die, felt suddenly healthy, fit and able. He dropped to his knees and welcomed the cold, soggy damp that seeped immediately through his trousers. With paper-soft, deeply wrinkled hands, he sifted through mud and sticks and rocks and leaves long into the night.

It was almost dawn when he finally lay his hands on something that thrummed insistently with magical energy. Harry held it in his open palm for some moments, and then, with an image clear in his mind, he stood, pushing the stone into his pocket. He drew his wand and paced the clearing with purpose and intent but no urgency, moving his wand with a practiced elegance and muttering fluent, delicate, powerful spells.

Harry was soon surrounded by palpable enchantments - this was strong, ancient magic, and more spellwork than he'd attempted to do for many years. He breathed heavily, quietly admiring the way the clearing shimmered with magic in the dawn light. He thought of Hermione. He hoped she'd be proud.

Then, Harry withdrew the stone from his pocket.

He turned it three times over, and watched with a familiar sense of awe as it levitated from his hand.

For a moment, nothing more happened, but Harry had long since out-grown undue panic or concern. He had done years of research, and he had faith, and he had hope.

Between two beats of Harry's heart appeared a boy in the clearing. He was perhaps five, with a mop of dark hair neatly cropped and pale skin and shaking hands. The boy drew in a ragged, sudden breathe.

"Hello," Harry plucked the stone from the space between himself and the boy, tucked it again into his pocket and reached a hand to the child, who hesitated, still gasping as if the air were thin.

"It's okay, Tom, don't be scared."

"Where am I?"

"You're somewhere safe," Harry replied honestly, because 'a forest in Scotland' would probably cause more panic than relief. He was rewarded for this statement by a tiny, cold hand in his. It was still somewhat incorporeal, it seemed to sink into Harry's, but with the physical connection Harry could feel the last element of the spell starting to work. He would make a final sacrifice and with it offer Voldemort the final page in his story - redemption, an authentic human life.

"Who are you?"

"I'm a friend, Tom. My name is Harry and I'm your friend."

"I don't have any friends..." Tom's answer was slow and reluctant and he immediately looked as if he feared he'd said the wrong thing.

"Well, I'll be your first, and you'll make many more," Harry had to drop to his knees, suddenly exhausted. He maintained his grip on Tom's hand, he could feel it growing warm and solid even as he felt his own being start to unfurl.

"are you okay?"

Harry could feel the lifeforce seeping from him. The spells were working quickly now, channeling energy from Harry's core.

"Quite alright young man, but I'm afraid I must go soon... it's important you listen to me."

Tom gave a cautious nod, tightening his grip on Harry's hand.

"You will be loved, Tom Riddle. You are kind, clever, and capable, and you are going to be well cared for... but I need you to remember that you are worthy of love, and that you have lots of love to give others. Can you do that for me?"

Tom looked hesitant, scared and a little uncomprehending. Harry considered this tiny, shivering, six year old form before him and thought to communicate the message another way. He relinquished Tom's hand and drew the boy into a tight hug. There was a moment's pause before the child tightened his own arms around the old man.

"Okay," Tom agreed solemnly into Harry's shoulder.

"And one other thing... you should tell them that Harry sent you."

"What?" Tom questioned quickly, but then Tom was alone, his arms wrapped around thin air. The clearing no longer shimmered, and the chirps of waking birds and the insistent rustling of wind through leaves, absent before, seemed to Tom cacophonous.

"Harry?" Tom called nervously, beginning to shake again, now with cold as well as fear, when through the trees he spotted flickering movement in luminous blue. He stepped toward the treeline, and shadows gave way to an enormous, ancient steer that seemed carved of moonlight.

*

It was quite late the following morning before anyone exited Hogwarts through the entrance hall, and it took Professor Georgina Weasley a few moments to register that the small lump of cloth she had thought was a student's discarded robe was actually a small child.

"Well, hello there," she greeted the lump, which roused slowly from a slumber, "And what's your name?"

"My name's Tom," said the boy, cautiously, and then, with some hope he added, "Harry sent me here."


End file.
